


Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

by AceQueenKing, DracoCustos



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Age Difference, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 08:54:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8138014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoCustos/pseuds/DracoCustos
Summary: For all that he had built up Ferelden, Loghain had nearly torn it down again; he had come from nothing but had returned to nothing. Elissa had – she had reunited a war torn land, much of it his fault. Lady Elissa Cousland was crass, vulgar, and annoying. She reminded him a great deal of himself.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashtopop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashtopop/gifts).



1.

He was not, in truth, entirely certain why he wanted to see the Hero of Ferelden, only that he found himself hunting her after the joining was complete.

Her decision still surprised him, and that bothered him. Loghain Mac Tir did not like surprises. She had spared him, when every bit of sense would have said not to. _Everything_ pointed to her killing him, to usurping the crown, depriving Anora…

And yet. Here he was, a Warden, and Anora still bore the crown.

She had done far better by Denerim than he had done. He had hoped she would spare Anora, but did not dare to wish for his own life.

Now that he had it, he did not know what to do with it.

And so he hunted, going from room to room.

She was sitting in the library when he found her, feet propped up on a table with her knees bent, a book laying open against her thighs as one small but undeniably battle-scarred hand carefully turned a page. The other hand, much less scarred but still showing nasty bruising from her shield beating into it, reached for a glass of wine left within easy reach, sipping at it before returning it to the table. It almost seemed a shame to have to disturb her. Almost.  
  
“I would have thought you had servants to do your reading for you,” Loghain said, surprised. It was rare to find noblewomen who had taken up the sport of reading: he had been second guessed many times in his efforts to provide Anora with a regal education. Clearly it was not the same in Higheast, however; the temperature of the room turned cool, and he felt a surprising burst of malice from Elissa when she didn’t even glare at him, just scoffed and turned another page of her book.  
  
“I would have thought you’d had a servant to help remove whatever crawled up your ass and started biting, but clearly that isn’t the case.” Elissa drained her goblet in one long gulp, setting it back on the table without refilling it. She did not bother to turn toward him – nay, not even a glance – to see his reaction.

He stood there, hands clenched tight. _How dare you?_ Loghain thought. Here was his savior, the only reason his head lay attached to his shoulders, and she treated him with nothing but disdain for so much as trying to talk to her. Talking to her in a c _omplimentary_ fashion, even, which he so rarely had done.

He frowned, mouth pursed in dissatisfaction. He debated taking a book of her own and ignoring her rudeness, but a part of him refused to turn away from the sudden confrontation.  
  
“Forgive the intrusion, your ladyship,” He said, his lips pursed and the words falling like poison. Loghain Mac Tir did not like to make apologies. “I merely meant that a woman of your station rarely has to work for a living. There is no reason to be _snide._ Highover is quite close to Orlais in manners, it seems.”

Elissa snapped her book closed with a loud bang. Loghain watched as she unfolded her legs, with the same fluid grace that had cost him their duel in front of the entire Landsmeet.

She took a step closer, and he did the same, his blood burning. He was taller than her by nearly a head, but with the glowering look on her face, she looked intimidating enough. He could see why enemies feared her, why Cailan had been ebullient in his praise for her.

She was so close he could smell the scent of her, a soft vanilla scent mixed in with iron and a soft, earthy smell. She stared at him, blue eyes narrowed and her large lips pursed, and he thought it was a shame she was so beautiful, yet so sour.  
  
“If you want to pick a fight with me, Mac Tir, then find a gauntlet and throw it down, but if you want to play this petty game of insults, I suggest you look for some Orleasian alley cat to play them with.”

He took a step toward her, one finger raised. “I don't need to go as far as Orlais to find an alleycat, it seems.”

The insult was grave. He didn't care, his blood pumping wildly. He had not felt this way in a long time, not since Maric, not since –

“ _Idiot._ ” She growled. Her hand balled into a fist, half-raised. “Do you not realize _I saved your life?_ ”  
  
“If you are going to hit me,” he spat, “hit me.”  
  
She stared at him for a moment, then took one space forward. He did the same, his own hands coming forward to hold her off, keep his defenses up. They stared at one another for one hot moment, his blood pounding in his ears, and then –

And then she pressed forward, and he did, and he was not exactly certain how it started or who had started it, but they were kissing, her lips on his, hot and heavy and wet. He pressed her up toward the door and she groaned as her back hit it, his lips hungrily seeking her own as her arms wrapped around his. For a few seconds, he knew nothing but the scent of her, the feel of soft skin pressed up against his own.

Then she pushed him away, her arms going to her sides.

“What the hell are we doing?” She asked, panting. Before he could say a word, she turned, her graceful legs carrying her quickly out the door.

It mattered little. He stared at the door in shock for a moment, before picking up a book and reading a history of Riviani politics.

But his mind wandered, frequently, to the kiss that still burned upon his lips.  
  


\- - -

 

2.

Loghain did not enjoy Redcliffe as a rule – he and Eamon had never agreed, ever – but he liked the road to it even less.

Elissa insisted on them all going, from the cursed golem to the ever-farting dwarf. She'd even insisted on including the Orlesian nun who insisted on singing different songs about the maker, in an accent so reminiscent of Halamshiral that it made his ears bleed.

He'd purposefully allowed his mule to slip to the back of the line, taking rearguard with Zevran the Antivian. The elf had spent the entire journey whistling, but as a whole, it was a lot more palatable a sound than yet _another_ round of _Thank the Maker We Daily Shall_. He had never been a religious man, and maker knew he could only handle so much of that.

It was strange to be on the road again, a part of the ground troops. He had not marched since he had been on Cailan's fool crusade, and now he was here again, in another group of doomed souls, on an impossible mission.

And Andraste's Sacred Tits help them all if they weren't successful.

“Ah, the rearguard,” Zevran said, leering at him. Evidently, the elf had decided Loghain looked like he wanted to have a conversation. “It is my _favorite_ position.”  
  
“Why?” He asked, unable to stop himself. He winced a moment after – no doubt that the answer would not be worth the time lost talking to the elf. There was a more than likely chance he was only making a double entendre – a favorite pastime of Zevran's, Loghain had realized.

Zevran laughed and raised a hand, waving towards the group. “Is it not obvious? _The view._ ”  
  
Loghain sighed. The answer had indeed been not worth his time.

“ _Especially_ our lady Warden,” Zevran said in a low voice. “That, my friend – “  
  
“I am _not your friend,_ ” Loghain spat out.  
  
“-- Is a truly excellent posterior.” Zevran's eyes had some mischief sparkling in them when Loghain looked at him again; he thought, for one brief moment, about unseating the nauseating elf, but knew that he was on too thin ice with the odd troupe's leader to get away with it.

He still had not forgotten the kiss in the library. She had not mentioned it, merely nodding at him as they suited up to ride, and so he had taken the neutral route of not mentioning it either, even if his lips still burned.

He shot an unamused look at the elf, all narrow eyes and serious face. Zevran was mercifully quiet after that, perhaps realizing that Loghain did not find his over-sexed fantasies entertaining.

He continued to watch the road ahead, alert for battle but now, but with his new warden senses, well aware there was no darkspawn in this area. He watched his companions for a time – and for a moment, he may – _may –_ have even glanced at their leader, but his eyes soon looked away as if burned.

He knew he should not look. The worst thing, he thought, would be to be caught staring at her. She was a young thing, surely no older than twenty and five; closer to Anora's age than his own.

And –

His thoughts were broken when Elissa leaned forward to have her mare break into a run, and for a fleeting moment, he caught the pleasant curve of her backside as her horse reared back and – Loghain realized two things.

She did indeed have a lovely posterior, and he was absolute, positively going to kill Zevran.

Unfortunately, such a thing was not an option at the moment. He sighed. He needed a distraction, badly, He had not even had the pleasure of being able to stare at maps during their course; that duty had, inextricably, fallen to a qunari.

That their progress should be marked by a _qunari_ was all the proof he needed of how strange Elissa's decisions could be.

“Ah, Ser Loghain!” The nun called from the front – Leliana? Even her name sounded Orlaisian. “Please join us in the next verse!”  
  
“It has been many years since I've been to a chantry I'm afraid,” he said. He hadn't believed, truly, since he'd seen what men were reduced to in the war – Orlaisian nobles treating impoverished farmers little better than dogs, Ferelden men beating Orlaisian chevaliers to death with little more than what they had on hand.

He instead kept his silence through the seventeen different hymns from the nun that followed them on the trail; his lips twitched but said nothing. Mercifully, the rest of the crew did not bother him.

Finally, _blessedly_ , Elissa dismounted. “We'll make camp here, tonight.”

“Yes ma'am,” Leliana said, and the others – including himself – merely stepped off their horses, all seemingly quiet.

He had hoped that perhaps this meant that everyone would keep to themselves in the camp, but as soon as he saw the elf and the dwarf carrying stones and drywood, he knew that he would be disappointed. There was only one thing such foraging could mean: a campfire.

\- - -

3.  
  
At least it was warm, he supposed, as he sat upon the hastily assembled hearth. He'd tried to stay as far away from the rest of Elissa's merry crew, but it proved impossible, as it had been assembled in a circle. He had Elissa on his right, and the qunari on his left.

He had been surprised she had sat by him, but did not comment on it. Theirs was a fragile peace.

At least it meant he did not have to talk to anyone else.

And, with the qunari, well...at least now he could look at the maps. He watched as the qunari double-checked their course, and frowned – the qunari's tracks had stopped at a certain point. He seemed to be scanning the paper, trying to pinpoint where they were. It was obvious to Loghian, but then he had been a Teryn of Gwaren, used to riding the rivers, and knew them like the back of his hand.

It was difficult, but, somehow, he managed to bite his tongue until the qunari marked their position wrong – he'd marked them being on the river _Mareketh's Tears_ , but they were too close to the edge of the Hinterlands for that.

“We're _here_. At _Mareketh,_ _Repentant_ ,” He said, tapping the camp. _“Not there._ That's in the gully of the burned men. Completely on the other side of the river.”

The qunari looked at him with a bored expression as he scratched out the pencil mark, putting it on the other end of the valley. “Noted,” he said, and then he turned toward Wynne, the mage, reaching for a roll she had offered him.

“Ironic, isn't it?” Wynne said, her eyes glaring at him. “To rest at _Mareketh,_ _Repentant_. The traitor's hill.”

He glared at her for a moment and caught the soft smirk on her lips; he turned around with only a grumble escaping from his own.

“They say,” she continued, though he rather wished that she wouldn't, “that Mareketh wasted away from his guilt over _betrayal_ to his queen.”

“Oh not just his queen,” the nun said, though from the accent he could not help but suspect that there was more to her than he thought. It seemed odd for an Orlesian lay sister to travel to Ferelden for the vows. “His lover, as well.”  
  
“Yes, it was a truly heinous act,” Wynne said, before pouring herself a bit of liquid and forcing it down her throat. He hoped for one brief second that the old witch choked.  
  
“Wynne,” Elissa said; her voice was a warning, and he looked up in surprise. “Enough.”

“Oy, don't pick on 'er,” Oghren said, and Loghain wasn't sure whether he found the speech or the stench of his breath worse. “'Wynne's just upset we lost the pretty one over this traitor.”  
  
“He isn't a traitor,” Elissa said, frowning.

The crowd around the fire grew quiet for a moment, until Zevran turned toward her, reaching one hand over to hers.

“My lady, I must say that is an...interesting… view of events.”

“I was at Ostagar,” Wynne said, and he didn't need to look over at her again to feel her eyes burning into him. “I know what _you_ did.”  
  
“ _Wynne_ ,” Elisa said, her voice barely controlled fury. “Enough! He had his reasons, and I've accepted them. He's here to atone for the mistakes he made, and you will allow him to do so.”  
  
“You would have to sacrifice a great deal to make-up for what you did,” she said. Her voice sounded angry, but, underneath it all, weary as well, a sort of exhausted frustration.

“Wynne!” Elissa barked.

“I've said my peace,” the mage said, her mouth a sour purse.  
  
“I'd bloody well say so,” he mumbled under his breath, just loud enough for Elissa to hear.

She whirled around on him in a furry.

“ _Loghain._ ” She pointed toward the mouth of a cave. “You. Me. Talk. Now.”  
  
“I said nothing.” He raised up his arms in protes. The arrogant _chit_ of a girl; she had let the mage prattle on but the moment he said _one_ thing, _under his breath no less_ –

“Now!” She barked.

Grumbling, he stood, hating himself for every step he took as he marched toward the cave. He caught the elf's voice in a low whisper for but a moment, and then the sound of several of the circle laughing – and he knew well it was about him. His hands balled into fists – he was not used to being disrespected on the battlefield.

He stormed into the cave, whirling about on her as soon as they were far enough to be out of the earshot of the jabberjaws.

“Well?” He hissed. “What is it you've come to insult me about now?”  
  
She stared at him, her mouth twitching as she took a couple steps back, standing straight against the wall. He would not allow her to escape that easily. He took two steps toward, staring down at her.

She was a small thing, he thought; tall for a woman but still a good head smaller than him.

She folded her arms, her frown growing longer at his intrusion.

“Well?” He groused. “What is it?”  
  
“Actually,” she said, the word spat out like venom, “I wanted to tell you I appreciated your restraint. Until you decided to throw it all away.”  
  
“Excuse me for defending myself,” he snarled, planting one hand above her head, his fingers brushing the heavy limestone of the cave. “I'm well aware the vast majority of Ferelden thinks me a traitor, including yourself, but I'll not be made a fool of by some self-sanctimonious grandmother.”  
  
“Mumbling insults under your breath is hardly the behavior of a Teryn,” She hissed, her hand curled into a fist. Was she going to hit him? He snarled as he slammed his hand into the stone beneath it. It hurt, his muscles stinging, but he did not flinch in pain. He would not give her the satisfaction.

“Neither is your abject failure at stopping an insubordinate soldier from mouthing off.” He growled. “Do you enjoy embarrassing me? Do you enjoy seeing the _traitor_ the butt of every joke?”

She pushed him away from her, her petite, soft hands slamming him backwards. “Back. Off. Loghain. I don't believe you're a traitor—“  
  
“A surprisingly mature viewpoint for one of your age.”

“—but you're being an idiot.” She shrugged. “They will see in time – if you prove it to them. And you're certainly not going to do that sniping at me, or mumbling under your breath in front of them.”  
  
She looked up at him, unafraid. Her eyes were like fire, the flames warm and heavy, and they consumed him so utterly that he didn't hear the approach of the damnable elf until he stuck his head between them.

“Oh, am I interrupting?” Zevran grinned. “Or is this not-so-private?”  
  
“You're free to have her,” he said, calmly walking back out of the cave without a second glance, though he swore he felt her eyes staring at his back.

Wynne met his eyes as he arrived back at the campsite. He didn't look away as he reached for another handful of bread.

\- - -

4.

He slept – unwell. His mind was full of thoughts, most of them concerning Elissa. He was not quite sure whether he wanted her or wanted to smite her, and the more he thought of her, he could not quite figure out how the pieces of her snapped together.

She was a beautiful woman; he could not ignore this, but neither did he dwell on it, though he found her form pleasing to the eye. What he more admired was her mind – smart, capable, and … _Utterly vexing_. He did not understand her, was not sure he wanted to; she did not consider him a traitor and yet she did not think him a warrior worthy of respect. She faced him down without fear, and yet had spared his life. She was merciful and simultaneously cruel; sweet, and, at the same time, sour.

He did not know whether he wanted to kiss her or smother her. Possibly both.

He sighed as the dwarf he'd been forced into sharing a tent with snored loudly. It mattered little, ultimately – he doubted he would have slept regardless.

But the dwarf's odious snoring meant that the time til morning passed longways.

At least he'd have someone to blame his heavy eyes on in the morning.

\- - -

5.

“Good morning,” Elissa chirruped, annoyingly peppy in the morning. He was surprised at her pleasantness toward him; she had not said another word after he had stormed out of the cave, and in truth, he doubted he would have bothered to greet him upon the morrow should their positions be reversed.

He reached for a mug of tea; he did not speak a reply until he'd downed a good cup. When he finished, he nodded at her, crisp and perfunctory. She sat down next to him, and he suppressed a grimace.

“I see you're a morning person,” she said, and he heard Leliana snort, her hand quickly covering her mouth.

“Mm.” He blinked, too sleep-deprived to provide much of a retort. “What do you need of me?”  
  
She pulled a map out from her satchel; he did his best not to direct his focus onto the soft peaks of her cleavage, just visible through the night-clothes she still wore in the morning light.

“You're in charge of the map duties today. Plot me a route to get us to Redcliffe by nightfall; you know the lands better than anyone else, and _clearly_ , you've got opinions on it.”  
  
He grabbed at the map with a bit too much relish and wondered, for one moment, if this was her way of apologizing for her behavior yesterday. They had both been a bit too fast with their words, and if this was her peace offer, then he was glad to take it.

“Yes.” He plotted the course carefully with a compass, making sure to take in the travel delay that resulted from attempting to wake up Morrigan in the morning. “We could make it by nightfall, I believe. If we are careful, and you do not mind fording the river at _Titan's Rest_.”

“Good,” she said, reaching for own mug of tea. “Perhaps with map duty, you'll be able to find a way to pull your own head out of your ass.”  
  
He looked up at her in surprise as she sashayed past him.

The woman was making a habit of rendering him speechless.

\- - -

6.

True to his word, they arrived only a few hours later.

“You're coming with me to the sortie with Eamon,” Elissa said. It was not given as an option, and she did not bother to wait for his opinion before turning to Leliana and ordering her to keep a watch outside of Redcliffe castle.

Even if his opinion seemingly did not matter, he did not bother to hide his disgust as they entered the castle. For a moment, he was jealous of Oghren and the others, who did not have to bother to parley with idiots. He'd much rather have been on guard with Leliana than stuck with bloody Eamon.

Loghain hated Redcliffe. Not the village itself – It was idyllic enough, and he had no hatred for their citizens, but he did not care for Eamon, who loved Maric but only, at best, tolerated others. The man's way of thinking was positively medieval; Eamon believed, unshakably, that Maric was a fitting ruler because he was Theirin, rather than because he acted as a noble ruler. It had proved problematic if useful under Maric's rule. Under Cailan, it was a disaster.

He did not want to imagine what would happen if Eamon had succeeded in his wish to plant the young bastard Alistair upon the throne. He shuddered at the thought – thankfully, for all her crassness, Elissa had been wise enough to know what was best for Ferelden was to reject the option. He supposed it had been some blessing than the hero of Ferelden had been born a noble.

Judging from Eamon's steely glare as he road out to meet them in the town – and there, Loghain saw the shadows on his face, a man still barely recovered from the poison, more's the pity – they would not find this an easy talk. Loghain sighed.

“Lady Cousland.” Eamon said – then, with eyebrows raised: _“_ _Mac Tir.”_

“ _Eamon._ ”He looked up at him from his mule; Cousland dismounted, but he did not, not wanting to show weakness. Eamon, he noticed, did not dismount either – the height of rudeness, among nobles; thankfully, as a common-born Teryn, he was already thought of lowly enough.

Neither of them said nothing for a moment, staring at one another. Elissa glanced at them, first at Eamon and then, longer and more witheringly, at himself.

“When you boys are done measuring your dicks--” she snarled as she handed her reigns to one of Eamon's footmen. “--I'll be inside.”  
  
Eamon quickly dismounted, shaking his head as he handed the reigns of his horse to his stable boy.

Feeling particularly stubborn, Loghain walked his mule into the stables himself. They had never bred the commoner out of him yet.

\- - -

“I'm afraid I have reconsidered the number of troops I'm willing to put forward for your army, Warden,” Eamon said before Loghain had even sat down in his chair, and he sighed, audibly.

Both eyes turned toward him disapprovingly, but he would not stand for this.

“You punish Ferelden for not getting a puppet on the throne?” He asked, his fingers clenching into a fist.  
  
“I choose not to commit more men to their deaths after our town has been so devastated during this civil war.” Eamon coughed into his hand. “I fear between my health and the hard strikes to this village – “  
  
“By Darkspawn!” Elissa protested, and he found himself nodding in agreement.

“-- be that as it may, I find my men are exhausted. I can send you the auxiliary corps we have, but anything more is simply...” Eamon sniffed. “Inhumane.”  
  
“And yet a mere five days ago you were willing to lead them into the breach,” Loghain said, sighing.

“Events have occurred that have led me to...reconsider.” Eamon looked unapologetic; Elissa looked down, her face purple. Loghain snarled, and stood.

“Eamon,” he growled. “We have fought together many times – “

“At _Maric_ 's side, yes.” Aemon said, hips lip twitching into all but a grimace. “Long may he rest.”  
  
“Yes.” Loghain's hand balled into a fist. “We fought, and we killed, and we nearly _died_ at Maric's side, to preserve a nation worth freeing. Now, do you mean to say that struggle is worthless?”  
  
“A nation should die when its kings do, _Kingslayer_ ,” Eamon said, softly. He looked broken, defeated, but Loghain had no pity for the man. Elissa stared down at him, her expression looking as if she, too, was struggling to follow Eamon's argument.

“You have a duty to the men, women, and children of Redcliffe, _Arl_. Would you see them die? Would you cut off your nose to spite their face?” He pointed toward him, wishing for all the world that he was holding a sword in his hand. “If you hold Cailan's death upon me, then so surely will _their_ deaths be upon you. You may call me Kingslayer, but, _you_ , Eamon, will be _kin-slayer._ Can you live with that?”

“I am in agreement with Ser Loghain,” she said quickly, tossing him an indecipherable look before turning back to Eamon. “If you choose to abstain, you're sticking a knife in your own ass.”

Eamon's lips twitched as he stood; Loghain's hands moved automatically to defend himself.

“You will have your soldiers, Sers.” Eamon turned quickly, walking back toward the bowels of his castle with a strength far more impressive than his previous actions would suggest. “Now...leave my home. I have no desire to see either of you again.”

Loghain waited to gloat in satisfaction until the door shut.

\- - -

7.

Elissa was unusually quiet after their defeat of Eamon.

He'd noticed as they ate together; they had wound up camping out in the Hinterlands again, after the rather thorny welcome they'd received in Redcliffe. Elissa had decided not to try to antagonize the locals further, which Loghain could not blame her for.

But she had been quiet all through the evening meal, and had not parted from the camp-fire even as others wandered off into their own corners and tents for the night.

Well used to a lack of sleep, he remained with her, watching the firelight burn as he studied a map.

“Thank you for your help today,” she said quietly.

“Hm?” He looked up from his map; Elissa was sitting regally, her hands in her lap.

“I don't know what I'm doing,” she admitted quietly. “It was always Fergus meant to lead; I'm the second child. I am aware that I am...crasser… than most expect for a Teryna. With people like Eamon… I would have lost those soldiers today, if you weren't there.” She bit her lip. “Thank you.”

“You are doing fine,” he said, clearing his throat. “You do what you think is best for Ferelden. It is all one could ask.”  
  
“Thanks, but I doubt that Eamon would agree. Or most of Redcliffe.” She laughed, but it sounded bitter; hollow. “I am not used to being hated.”

“To be hated is sometimes necessary for a good leader,” Loghain said, moving closer to her. He felt awkward; it was not his place to provide pep talks. Maric had been better at that sort of thing – Loghain was meant for logistics, ordinances. Strategy. He was not the one to move the hearts and minds of men.

He reached out a hand, gently grabbing hers.

"You could have been a queen twice over," Loghain said, softly.

"I'm sorry?" She said. She looked startled, like a little bird, and he stared into her eyes, green-blue and verdant, preciously alive. Far too easy a forest, he suspected, to get lost in, should he stare at them long time.

"You could have been a queen." He said, matter of fact. "You are a Cousland, are you not? You could have married your sweetheart Alistair, become the marriage of Higheast and Denerim. The king's blood preserved, the house of Cousland redeemed. And yet you," he said, poking his finger toward her, "you chose to save my life, despite the gains you could have made. Why?"

She was silent for a long moment. Loghain did not waver in his conviction, staring at her.

"There were many reasons," she said, biting her lip. “I believe you to be the better leader. And I know Alistair could not – would not convince other allies, even if Eamon would have loved him. He was a good lad but...not a leader.”  
  
“Aye,” he said. He was not a gentleman, but he tried to be kind. “Then you did what was best for our land. There is little you could hope to do more than that.”

“Aye,” she said. “Still feels like shit though.”  
  
“Yes.” He squeezed her hand, and she returned it. “It does.”  
  
They sat together, watching the fire until it burned to embers.

\- - -

8.

It was a bitter thing, to know one's life-thread was about to be cut.

In truth he'd half expected Riordan's revelation; few things came without a catch and the Warden's emphasized sacrifice above all else.

But he did not fear the end of his life. He was a fifty-year-old man, older than most here; he had made his mistakes. He had failed Maric; had failed Cailan. Now with his sacrifice, he could at least give the gift of life to Anora….to Elissa.

It was to Anora he went first, of course. Those goodbyes were notably easier, if unpleasant; Anora understood him without words, and rarely exasperated him. Her emotions – sadness, restraint, regret – were easier to understand.

He embraced his daughter for what he knew would be the last time and savored the moment. He memorized everything about her – her poise, her duty, her love – and hugged her tighter.

“Long live the queen,” he whispered softly.

“Be well, father.” She reached out to pat his cheek. He nodded and turned, unable to say goodbye.

“Honor Ferelden.” He said, then, softer: “My daughter.”

He turned away as her face broke her composure for one brief second; he could not bear to turn to look at her after that; instead, he walked briskly back to the Warden's rooms. He looked for Elissa but her familiar red hair was nowhere to be seen. He frowned.

It was not like a commander to not be there at the last, most vital moment. They were going to take on an _archdemon_ ; their planning needed to be perfect.

Perhaps she was still in meetings with Eamon. That, he had little desire to interrupt.

Without much preamble, he went to his room. He would rest, perhaps with a good book, and then he would plan for his last, and hopefully greatest, battle.

There was a familiar woman sitting on his bed when he came in; he tilted his head. Elissa had her head turned away from him, her legs crossed. She was stone; a statue cast in marble.

“Lady Cousland?” He was not sure how to proceed; he had only ever had two women surprise him in his bedchambers; once, Anora, during the King's day, her little braids sloppily done as she brought him a breakfast of eggs – with the eggshell – and a cup of thick, black tea. The other had been Celia, sneaking out of her father's home with her wedding dress in tow. They'd not had much those days, but he'd have been hard-pressed to have seen anything more beautiful on her than that simple, white gown.

Lady Cousland remained still; he took another step closer and still she did not move.

“Elissa,” he said, kneeling in front of her. “This is not your bed-chamber.”

“I'm – I'm sorry.” She turned toward him then, and his frown burrowed deeper when he saw her face.

Her eyes were red and wide; trails of tears flowed down her face toward trembling lips.

“I didn't know where else to go.” She pressed her head into her hands. “You must think me a great fool.”  
  
“It is natural to be afraid of the – next step," he said, euphemistically avoiding the topic as he took a seat beside her. This was not his forte. He had never been a particularly devout andrastian, and had doubted the existence of Andraste as anything more than a past prophet. It was hard, he found, to believe in a generous maker when he had been exposed to the nightmares that Orlais had brought to Ferelden.

“I should have – I should have known.” She bit her lip. “They're all dead, you know. My family. I thought maybe – maybe I was lucky to escape Howe. But I wasn't spared. I just got a fucking extension.”  
  
“Yes.” He pressed a hand to his shoulder. “That is all any of us have, you know. You have done much with your short time.”  
  
Far more than him, in truth. For all that he had built up Ferelden, he had nearly torn it down again; he had come from nothing but had returned to nothing. She had – she had reunited a war-torn land, much of it his fault.

She was crass, vulgar, and annoying. She reminded him a great deal of himself.

“I don't want to die,” she whispered softly. “It's so fucking dumb but...”

She ran a hand through her hair, and he tried not to notice how lovely she was, even at this moment. Her eyes were teary, but beautiful, soft and small but alert, quick. She sighed. “I'm only twenty.”

“If it comes down to the two of us, I will take the blow,” Loghain said, awkwardly tapping her hand. “You need not worry.”  
  
“But then you'll die.” She bit her lip again, taking a quick glance at him before staring back down at her hands. “I cannot have saved you from Alistair only to let you die again.”  
  
“I am an old man compared to you,” he said with a sigh. “Riordan has more knowledge of the Warden's than I; you are its best and brightest hope for a future. It is...alright.”

He squeezed her hand. “I...have many regrets. But this would not be one of them.”

She leaned closer for a moment, her eyes closed as she leaned against his shoulder. He placed a hand in her own.

“This is fucking bullshit,” she said, in a small voice, and he was reminded as to how young she was.

“Yes.” He agreed, he opened his mouth, planning on telling her to try to hold her breakdown until at least one of them was dead, but before he could say anything, she suddenly lunged into his arms, and he was only barely aware of what was happening before she had pressed her lips to his own.

He froze for a moment before returning the kiss; the move instinctual as his mind wrestled with what was happening. He was unsure of how they had gotten to this moment, only that he was, on a very base level, quite pleased by it.

Eventually, his brain reasserted control of his body and he pushed away, breathing heavily. Elissa responded by climbing into his lap, which did not help him keep control.

“We should stop,” Loghain said, his breaths raw and fast. “You are but a girl and I – it would not be right – “  
  
“We will die tomorrow, you moron.” She snarled, her hands fast as they unbuttoned his shirt. He offered no resistance. “I am choosing we take a bit of happiness now. You can be a miseryguts when we're dead."

It was a rather compelling argument. They were, after all, going to die tomorrow, which meant that he would not need to examine his desire for her too closely; would not need to decide whether he loved her or hated her.

He pressed her down into the bedding.

“Is this truly what you want?”

She raised an eyebrow. “We may die in a few hours. I do not intend to have my first and last roll in the hay be with _Oghren_.”

“Point considered.” He pressed a kiss to her side as her soft, lithe fingers wound through his hair.

“For the Kingdom,” he whispered into her side.

He would die tomorrow, but he would die for her, for Anora. And perhaps, in this, he could be redeemed.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for the great prompts! I hope you enjoyed the fic :)


End file.
